Trapped in Time
by thelostdoitsu
Summary: An antique doll is mysteriously by three men, A Japanese, a Frenchman, and an American, each oblivious of what power the doll encompasses and foolishly brings it into his home. The doll with a pair of highly definable eyebrows, painted charcoal black and a worn green uniform, modeled after a long ago war. Rated T for graphic descriptions and character death


/ **WARNING: Graphic descriptions and character death**

* * *

10..9..8..7..6…

Time is flowing, slowly, tick, ticking away, the monster consuming it, withering, manipulating it effortlessly, flawlessly with its porcelain fingers.

5..4..3..2..1…

Time is ending, quickly, tick, ticking away, the doll, abandoned, broken, crying, will turn the gears, the revengeful path, onwards to where his future lies.

1..2..3..4..5…

Ready for another round?

The first man known, of Japanese descent, was not expecting much when he bought the cheap doll from a shop down the lane. He looked it over, its features faded, but precisely marked; the doll must have cost a fortune, only time would tell when. A pair of defined brows, dark charcoal black, tufts of blond string made a nest atop its head. The cloth covering its cold, delicate body, was of worn, green fabric, crafted as if to model a uniform, like a relic, of a long ago war. The Japanese man carefully set it with his collection, it made an excellent addition, if only he would have known beforehand. The first night, of the first man, he was asleep in his bed, soundly dreaming of aspirations like all others who weren't satisfied with their possessions. The doll was lifeless, staring down at him from a higher shelf, though just because it was deprived of breath did not mean it was deprived of soul. As the man gently shifted in his sleep, it was as if the moonlight fuelled the doll's mechanism, it moved, one limb by limb it crawled in a twisted, crooked way, limping on towards its oblivious victim, a sickly grin painted on its expression, faster, faster. Instantaneously, it made a grab for the man's neck, a dead lock grip on its ice cold hands, squeezing, torturing, choking. It wasn't long before his body was lifeless as well, his expression left as a struggle, his eyes wide with fear and his mouth hanging open, fighting for his life. He lost. The broken soul looked over its delicious victim and immediately started tearing away at his skin. The sharp porcelain fingers hurriedly piercing his flesh, messily and wildly, soon they were stained with the flow of a warm, red liquid, but it continued on. It brought the flesh to it's face, as if it could open its mouth to have a taste of the shredded body. The bloody scene played all through the night, till the next morning where a large puddle of the thick liquid oozed around the bed sheets, and the stained doll. Both lay lifeless, a sickening sight, the first murder signaled there were more to come, it wasn't over just yet.

The second man known, French in his ancestry, did not expect much when he found the doll in a crowded trash container. He lifted it up, from it miserable state, within it he found beauty that others would just dismiss as antique. The Frenchman brought the doll to his home, cleaned it up, made it the most beautiful like a rare jewel. Once satisfied with his hard work, he lay down to rest for a while, unknowing what would surely come. Sleeping is a defenseless state, an invitation for manipulation, an invitation to let others do as they please with you unconscious life. When you close your eyes as you drift away, how can you possibly know what is going on around you, perhaps the world isn't as we see it, perhaps what we see if just a fake, when we close our eyes it's the real. Whatever wonders, the lifeless cannot see, cannot sense, this doll, it was more powerful than any man. And soon, it would use this advantage for its bloody revenge. Once again, the doll waited, watched without seeing, it moved with the moon, limb by limb, crawling, accelerating, its body twisted at an angle and its hair in mangles as it reached for its victim. The fingers, hard, cold, stiff around the man's neck were, squeezing, digging, choking the breath of this unfortunate man. Soon, they both lay lifeless along the sea of sheets the man had been struggling in before. The sickening expression of torture and desperation written on the Frenchman's features. But the doll continued its bloody ritual, scrapping its fingers on the yet warm flesh of the other, savagely tearing him apart to useless pieces as red liquid flowed, sputtered out of the body. It disassembled the man, limbs, head, and organs, shredding them to pieces as if they were mere toys. The massacre continued till daylight filtered in, then the doll was still, so very, very, still.

The third was an American, a man so free-spirited and oblivious he couldn't have foreseen this outcome. He was strolling through the streets of a crowded city when he spotted the doll at a nearby subway station. Of course he was terrified at first, such a ragged, ugly, doll who would leave that there? But an idea came to his mind as he picked it up hesitantly. The American could prank his friends, what fun, would it be to film their cowardly expressions when it would pop out out of nowhere. There and then he decided to bring it to his home. The man or rather young adult, set it down on another room, for it was obvious by the amount of horror films he'd seen that the doll might be possessed or something. It was fine throughout the day, but when the sun settled down, he made sure to firmly lock the door of the room the doll was in, before retiring to his own bedroom. Soon, as the man was sleeping soundly in bed, dreaming about what dreamers dream, the doll with the moonlight that shone through the room, was lifted by its spell. It walked, limb by limb in a lopsided way, banging on the door wildly as it demanded to be freed. Its fingers teared at the door, scratching, withering violently, until the noise woke the man from his slumber. At last when the doll had destroyed its boundaries, it seeked for the one thing it only knew how to perceive: revenge. It fell, crawled, its head now twisted at an awkward angle, almost hanging from its attachments, it rushed towards the room where the man was in, expecting him to be asleep just like all the rest, except, he was not. The American was shaking, in great fear, his eyes wide open in shock, his body frozen in an unresponsive state. The doll, stopped, for once it was, wrong, the very first time, it was wrong. It stood frozen as well, the piercing green eyes staring lifelessly at the man before it. And for the very first time, a victim had seen its murderer.

10..9..8..

 _Where am I? Where's my mummy?_

7..6..5..

 **"** **Where am I, where is my Mummy?!**

4..3..2..

 **͕̲͗̅͠ɯ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠H͕͕̲͗͗̅͠є͕͕̲͗͗̅͠R͕͕̲͗͗̅͠є͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠ʌ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠M͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠I͕͕̲͗͗̅͠?͕͕̲͗͗̅͠!͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠W͕͕̲͗͗̅͠ɦ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠E͕͕̲͗͗̅͠ɾ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠E͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠I͕͕̲͗͗̅͠ƨ͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠ɱ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠Y͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠M͕͕̲͗͗̅͠υ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠M͕͕̲͗͗̅͠ɱ͕͕̲͗͗̅͠Y͕͕̲͗͗̅͠!͕͕̲͗͗̅͠?͕̲͗̅ ͕̲͗̅͠**

1…

The doll screamed, shrieked in terror and confusion, it was a child, trapped in time, where it did not belong. The soul had been separated, and the body was thrown across the room mercilessly, almost shattering into pieces as the soul then escaped from its boundaries. It was gone..gone..gone...it had lost, it's own game of hide and seek.

The origin of this doll dates back to the times of the second world war. A young British boy about the age of 5, had been sent down underground, evacuated with his family to one of the bomb shelters during the London bombings. They had sat there, with others for almost 17 hours, no food, no reassurance that the bombs were soon supposed to stop. When almost in a split second, the earth shook and the faint whistling of a missile was apparent amongst them. Down...down..down...silent. The people waited anxiously to see where it would hit, but they weren't expecting it to hit right at them. It was a tragedy by all means, a poorly build bomb shelter made in quantity not quality by frantic humans. Though, they didn't find the bodies until 3 months after when the earth had turned upside and the stink was evident. They didn't know it at the time but there was one survivor, the boy. He had miraculously survived the bomb, by hiding under his mother's embrace, she which now lay lifeless like the rest. The boy was trapped underground, and shouting did not do much as his words just rebounded against the walls aimlessly. There was no food, no supplies and in order to survive he had to feed off of the rotting corpses around him, relying purely on animal instincts as he went insane.

The young boy had also carried a doll that his parents had finely crafted for him, it reflected his own features perfectly, but as they were known to practice the dark arts of black magic, they had enchanted the doll to protect the child at all costs, And that is just what it did, it protected his soul after he had died, by encompassing it in the body of itself. And the one thing it sought for was revenge, revenge from human thought.


End file.
